The Journey of Life

When I started out on the journey of the last two years, I was imprisoned in a small town of southern Wisconsin, entitled Sparta. During the summer the freshly cut grass smells as sweet as Canadian honey. When walking throughout down town, you can here the sound of children playing on the sidewalk, their laughter as a melody to your ears. When you continue down the street you can smell the perfume of the family grill, and by looking closely enough, you can see the city workers through the window, on their lunch break, visiting and laughing, as if everything in the world is as perfect as the symmetrical wings of a Californian butterfly. 

 In the time that I spent in this cessation, I realized that nothing really happens in the small town of Sparta Wisconsin. The days go by about as quickly as a slow moving tractor on the interstate. In times if grief and turmoil, the town comes together as a family, and use one another as a foundation to hold each other up. And when it comes time to celebrate, no one misses out. 

 Every summer on the fourth weekend in June, there is a big celebration called Butterfest.  In the weeks leading up to the festival, you can almost taste the anticipation in the air. Everywhere that you go you will see signs and banners advertising the bash, although it is common knowledge to all who abide in this metropolis. If one does not know of this specific celebration, then it is quite obvious that they are about as foreign as a penguin in Africa. 

 On a quiet fall day, you can hear the trickling of water in the small creek that runs through the town. When it rains it sounds as if the Mississippi River is mightily clapping her hands in applause to the fish whom just narrowly escaped it's predator. You can sometimes see the grumpy old man, red as a blazing flame, hollering as loudly as a lightning bolt at the children as they cut through his yard after school. His threats are as empty as grandmas cookie jar, for deep down, he is as soft as freshly baked bread. 

 Although this stop was but a small break in the journey that I call my life, the experience of the standstill was as magnificent as the Northern Lights. Some would rather take the easy, smooth highway; but as for me- I have taken the road less traveled, because just down that road, right off of exit 25, is that town that has shaped me into the person that I must be, in order to complete the rest of my journey.

When I finally began to lift my feet, and continue on, it hurt more then stepping on a rusty nail. But I realized that all things must eventually come to an end; and I have the choice to make it a sweet end, or a bitter end. Although I miss the beautiful small town, that I believe will always be my home, I also realize that my  life is a journey, and the adventure will continue until I have taken my last breath. 

 So I will take heart, and never forget that my steps are being guided cautiously by someone who will never fail me, nor lead me anywhere that I cannot survive. So as I am falling asleep, I know that I am blessed to be falling asleep in a warm bed, and grateful to know that my future is already set up, and has already been planned. All I have to do is be willing to follow the plan that my great God has given me, no matter how scary and dreadful it may seem, because my God has got it under control.